


Libation

by evewithanapple



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 23:06:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4118044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/pseuds/evewithanapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Iole, Iole, the most-beloved, the most-treasured; <br/>Iole beloved of Antiope, famed for beauty and grace; <br/>We sing your praises Iole, sing of your glory, <br/>In your name we sing</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Libation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [betony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betony/gifts).



They bathe her first. Upon waking, she is escorted to the bath house- normally raucous with noise, now eerily empty and silent- and submerge her in the largest pool of hot water, scrubbing her skin raw before anointing her with sweet-smelling soaps and oils. Long tendrils of hair float out behind her at attendants rub her feet with rough cloths, scrape dirt from beneath her nails, and massage soapsuds into her shoulders. She tries to clear her mind of all but pious thoughts, but it’s difficult when the room is filled with the sound of water splashing and the chatter of the attendants.

After the bath is done, they take her to another room and comb out her hair. She tries not to wince as they yank at the tangles, holding a flickering torch dangerously close to her scalp to make the hair dry faster. Once she’s been suitably dried out, they take her hair in hand and wind it into a dozen braids, then wind the braids together into a knot at the nape of her neck. Ribbons are would through the tendrils, all of them varying shades of violet. “Purple for Antiope,” one of the attendants says, as though any of them needed the reminder. Then they help her into a diaphanous robe of the same colour, and finally paint her fingernails and toenails, adding streaks of colour to her forehead and cheeks to mark her apart from the other women attending the festival that day. Finally, they escort her to the inner chamber, and leave her there to wait.

Outside, she can hear pan flutes playing, the rhythmic drumming of dancing feet against the grass, the happy babble of those in attendance. She is not permitted to join them today; now marked as separate, she has already begun her journey to divinity. And the divine do not mingle with mortals; not on such a day as this. It would not do to lose the goddess’s prize only hours before she was to be presented.

They come to collect her when dusk finally falls, and candles have been lit all through the antechamber. The music and dancing has finished, and the voices outside have fallen to hushed speculation. She is led to the back of the temple as the high priest makes his customary speech: how much their city owes to Antiope, how faithfully they worship her, how they offer up their most beloved daughter to show her that their love is as true as hers’ for Iole. She waits through it all, hands smoothing the fabric of her gown, waiting for the moment she will step forward and claim her place as the new player in this eons-old tale.

Everyone knows the story: a mortal woman, Iole, had been beloved of the goddess Antiope. Antiope’s brother-husband, Phobos, had grown jealous of his earthly rival, and struck her down with a thunderbolt. The grief-stricken Antiope had gathered the scattered remains of her lover and cast them up into the night sky, where she could be seen by all who looked upwards after the sun fell.  Since then, once a year, the people of Iole’s home province choose a young woman to stand in for their beautiful foremother, offering her up to Antiope as both replacement and consolation. This year, she has been chosen as the replacement, the one trained and painted to be Iole reborn. What will happen when the goddess takes her, she does not know. Traditionally, the new Iole is escorted into the temple, and the doors closed behind her, and she will be gone when the doors are opened again the next day. It is not for mortals to know what transpires when the doors are closed. It is not yet for her to know, either; soon, when the ceremony is complete, she will.

The high priest has finishes his sermon, and voices are raised in song: _Iole, Iole, the most-beloved, the most-treasured; Iole beloved of Antiope,_ _famed for beauty and grace; we sing your praises Iole,_ _sing of your glory, in your name we sing._ It is time. She steps forward. There are no cheers; this is not a moment for pure celebration, not for frivolity. It is a solemn occasion. The priest anoints her, again, violet oil pressed in a thumbprint to her forehead, prayers said over her crown of flowers before they are placed on her head. She kneels through all of it, perfectly still, concentrating only on the words she knows so well. _This gift we present to you, o mother Antiope, in love and submission. We pray you accept her as your beloved, Iole reborn._ She has known these prayers her whole life. Everything has led to this.

When the long ceremony is done, she rises to her feet, and one of the acolytes hands her a torch, saying gravely “may it light your way in the dark.”

“May Antiope ease your path,” she replies. The temple doors are open, the interior dark and forbidding. None but her would dare enter; none but her are permitted. She bears the torch. She lifts it high- high enough that all in the crowd can see it and know what is taking place- and steps forward, the hem of her dress brushing across the temple threshold. As soon as she is inside, the priests push the doors shut, and she is alone.

The noise from outside is gone; she can hear no distant voices, no chirping crickets, not even the faint whisper of the wind. If she were to turn and open the doors- if she were even capable of doing so- she is not sure what landscape they would open onto, if any landscape at all. This temple is her universe now. It is not so different from her childhood, when she played on these steps and took her lessons under the watchful eyes of Antiope’s statue at the far end of the temple. Everything she has done has prepared her for this moment. Now that it has arrived, however, she is not quite sure what to do next.

She carries the torch with her over to a small bench, and seats herself there, setting the torch down in a bracket on the floor. The pool of light cast by the fire spreads just far enough for her to see the feet of Antiope’s statue where it stands against the back wall. Will the statue come to life, she wonders? Will she hear a crack as the stone falls away and the goddess is revealed underneath? Or will she simply find herself drawn suddenly upwards and outside, into a realm she has never glimpsed before? Or will she wait here until starvation or thirst takes her, proceeding to the next world in the normal way?

There’s a faint shuffling sound across the room, and her head whips around to see what it happening. Her heartbeat increases, excitement flowing through her limbs to her heart. Has Antiope arrived already? Is she to be taken now?

But no: the shuffling sound repeats itself, and a woman enters her line of sight, holding a torch of her own in her right hand. She is dressed in the simple white robes of novice priestesses, a plain metal torc encircling her neck. Just another woman; just another mortal.

“You’re not permitted to be here,” she says. “Not while the ritual is in progress.”

The woman takes this information with a calm shake of her head. Her hair is plain and brown, her eyes likewise. She is exceptionally normal, the last thing anyone might expect to see inside the temple of Antiope on the night of the sacrifice. She wonders how this woman got in.

“I am home here,” the woman says. She walks along the walls, holding her flame to each of the unlit torches, lighting them in their turn. “And are you?”

“I am,” she says. She wonders if she should be haughty, or if she ought to be humble. What is she to this woman? Goddess or supplicant? “I am the new Iole. I am to be taken-” Taken up? Taken in? “Taken by Antiope,” she finishes lamely. “I wait for her now.”

The woman clicks her tongue as she finishes lighting the last of the torches. “So your name is Iole, then? Is that what I ought to call you? Or do you have some other?”

“No other,” Iole says. “My mortal name was shed in preparation for the ceremony.”

The woman- a postulant, Iole decides, she must be a postulant for the priesthood- nods. “A good tradition,” she says. “You may call me Alexis, if you wish.”

“’Helper’,” Iole translates for her. “Did you choose that name for yourself, when you joined the temple?”

“I choose all my names,” Alexis says serenely. She sits on the ground in front of Iole’s bench, spreading her skirt out around her. “Tell me, Iole- did you choose the sacrificial position for yourself? Or were you selected for it?”

“You must know the procedure if you live in the temple,” Iole says, surprise making her abrupt. “I was chosen by the priests, when I was yet too young to understand. I have always been a sacrifice in training.”

“Mmm.” Alexis purses her lips. “And do you accept this role? There are some who would fight against it.”

“Such people are foolish,” Iole retorts, “and short-sighted, and impious. Who would dare reject the role of Antiope’s beloved, when she is beloved by all her worshippers? It is unthinkable.”

“Perhaps they cling too tightly to the mortal realm,” Alexis says softly. “Perhaps they have lovers of their own who they do not wish to reject in favour of a more divine love.”

“Lovers greater than Antiope?” Iole says incredulously. “Greater than she who lights the sky and bears the souls of those who die in combat to their eternal reward? There can be no greater honour than to be loved by such a goddess. I cannot-” She shakes her head. “Those who would reject this gift are such that I cannot understand.”

“It is not so hard,” Alexis says. She is watching Iole closely. “The love of a woman for her lover is different from a woman for her goddess. Worship is not the same as affection.”

“How so? The gods take lovers among their worshippers.”

“The gods do many things,” Alexis says wryly. “We would not do well to emulate them all.” Iole opens her mouth, and Alexis holds a hand up. “Forgive me if I blaspheme. To be so long among the divine is a difficult prospect for some. Not all mortals would rise to the task.”

“I am not all mortals,” Iole says, drawing herself up. “I was raised to this task. I will not fail to perform it. My love of Antiope will bear me strength to withstand whatever trials I may meet.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Alexis says, rising. Iole blinks. The postulant had seemed short of stature when she first entered the room, now towers over her head. How had she seemed so nondescript? Her hair flowed long and lovely, and her eyes flashed flecks of gold. She was not- could not be- a postulant- she was-

“My lady!” Iole slides from the bench, knees colliding with the floor, and prostrates herself. She feels a long finger stroking her cheek, and glances up.

Antiope smiles down at her. “I have been waiting for you,” she says gently. “I have waited many years for one willing to dedicate herself with such passion. Is it truly in your heart to be my companion?”

“It is, my lady,” Iole says, trembling. “It is all that I wish for myself.”

Antiope takes her by the elbows and pulls her slowly to her feet. “Then you shall have your wish,” she says, and kisses her. It is a brief, chaste meeting of lips, but it carries promises of more to come. “Come with me. There is another world, and it waits for you.”

Wide-eyed, Iole nods. Antiope takes her hand and turns. A light is shining in their air in front of them, a golden rectangle hovering a few inches above the ground. Antiope steps up and into it, then turns back, gesturing for Iole to follow. Iole steps in after her.


End file.
